42 HENRY KIEKE WHITE S POEMS. 



The throne of Death, I hang mj mournful Ijre, 



And give its wild strings to the desert gale. 



Rise, son of Salem, rise, and join the strain, 



Sweep to accordant tones thy tuneful harp. 



And, leaving vain laments, arouse thy soul 



To exultation. Sing hosanna, sing, 



And halleluiah, for the Lord is great. 



And full of mercy ! He has thought of man ; 



Yea, compassd round with countless worlds, has thought 



Of we poor worms, that batten in the dews 



Of morn, and perish ere the noonday sun. 



Sing to the Lord, for he is merciful ; 



He gave the Nubian lion but to live, 



To rage its hour, and perish ; but on man 



He lavished immortality, and heaven. 



The eagle falls from her aerial tower. 



And mingles with irrevocable dust ; 



But man from death springs joyful. 



Springs up to life and to eternity. 



Oh that, insensate of the favouring boon, 



The great exclusive privilege, bestow'd 



On us unworthy trifles, men should dare 



To treat with slight regard the protfer'd heaven, 



And urge the lenient, but All-Just, to swear 



In wrath, " They shall not enter in my rest !" 



Might I address the supplicative strain 



To thy high footstool, I would pray that thou 



Wouldst pity the deluded wanderers, 



And fold them, ere they perish, in th}- fiock. 



Yea, I would bid thee pit}^ them, through Kim, 



Thy well-beloved, who, upon the cross, 



Bled a dread sacrifice for human sin, 



And paid, with bitter agony, the debt 



Of primitive transgression. 



Oh ! I shrink. 

 My very soul doth shrink, when I reflect 

 That the time hastens, when, in vengeance clothed, 

 Thou shalt come down to stamp the seal of fate 

 On erring mortal man. Thy chariot wheels 

 Then shall rebound to earth's remotest caves, 



